


The Witching Hour

by UnluckyAmulet



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Desk Sex, Dominant Tommy Shelby, Dommy Tommy, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Presents, Reader is in show business, Smut, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnluckyAmulet/pseuds/UnluckyAmulet
Summary: In the cover of night, he comes to you. It's always a little bit like magic, those moments you can get with him.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 112





	The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO. This story came to me outta nowhere at like, 12am last night. I was listening to a lot of Lana Del Rey, Halsey, Hey Violet, etc, on loop pretty much the entire time I was writing this. ("You Can Be My Daddy" in particular) I've been in the Peaky Blinders far too long not to make a Reader Insert where you get to be fucked silly by Tommy Shelby.
> 
> Enjoy! <3

There’s something special about that certain hour of the night, between midnight and three. It’s a feeling that comes to you every now and then, an overwhelming sensation of possibilities. Like anything can happen.

Maybe that’s why you feel strangely calm, knowing just who’s coming to see you. Actually, ‘calm’ isn’t quite right, it doesn’t match that singing in your veins, the magnetic tug of attraction that grows stronger and stronger with each passing minute, like your body can feel him approaching. No, calm isn’t exactly it, but there’s a degree of assurance that makes this feel fun instead of tense.

You know that he isn’t going to forget about you.

Thing is, this should be tense. Your husband ain’t there (and where he is, you don’t know, nor do you care) but he’d go fucking ballistic if he knew what was happening – what was about to happen.

Well, fuck him. You know he’s been screwing around behind your back for months. Maybe even longer. Well, two can play at that game, you’ll do far better than any two-bit whore or overeager showgirl.

No. Your catch is considerably more impressive.

The door swings open, silent as a ghost and you find yourself sitting up straighter, like a naughty kid in class.

Tommy Shelby walks into the room like he owns it, shutting the door with a firm click behind him. He’s already removed his coat at the door, but the signature cap is still firmly on, shadowing his face just so. But he’s staring right at you, twin rings of blue growing thinner as they skate up and down your body. He blinks once, slowly, those lashes dipping like a wing. You’ve admitted before to being terribly jealous of those eyelashes – you’re the one in showbusiness but those eyes of his put any movie star’s to shame.

You made sure to dress nicely for him, but now you wonder if you’ve overdone it. Your favourite (and most expensive) nightgown, the stockings you know he loves and a fucking string of pearls glistening around your throat. You thought it was a good idea at the time, but maybe you look ridiculous, like a kid playing dress up, playing at being an adult.

“Look at you,” Tommy rasps, startling you, both with the suddenness and how he always seems to know just what’s going through your head. “Very nice.”

He’s never effusive with compliments – he’s not much of a talker in general – but two words from him in that low, approving purr means more to you than a thousand gushing compliments from suck-ups and boot lickers you get in your line of work. You feel warmth bloom in your stomach and bite your lip to stop yourself from grinning like a fool.

“Thanks,” you say and Tommy steps further into the room, his tread slow and careful as a cat’s. 

His hand reaches out and gently his fingers wrap around the pearls, tugging you gently to your feet. His mouth is warm as it meets yours, one hand tangling in your hair, angling your head while the other clicks the pearls between his fingers.

It’s a cliché, but kissing Tommy isn’t quite like kissing anyone else. For a man who is so hard to read as he is, like talking to a statue, he knows how to kiss with feeling. His teeth gently scrape your bottom lip, lips slightly chapped but firm and hungry against yours. He loves your mouth, but he likes to kiss your throat too. Letting a man like Tommy that close to your neck is nothing short of thrilling to you – it’s like baring it to a wolf.

But the best part of it is, you know how much he wants to do more.

If Tommy had his way, he’d lace your skin with love bites, so everyone would see them and know exactly who was fucking you. There would be no sneaking around, snatching these fleeting moments together, under the cover of darkness. And he wouldn’t be gone every morning after, he’d be there when you woke up.

If he had it his way, you’d be _his._

But in a perverse way, you wonder if it’s exactly because you _aren’t_ that he makes sure to treat you right. It’s not that you think that Tommy would ignore or mistreat you the moment he got a ring on your finger, but once that happened, he’d have won. Eventually, new things become familiar and the excitement disappears. What comes after isn’t bad – comfort, easiness – but you know Tommy. He craves excitement and danger more than any drug known to man. That your dear, darling bastard of a husband would kill (or try to) the both of you if you found out is like his birthday and Christmas come at once.

So Tommy lavishes you with ‘anonymous’ gifts, sneaks into your room whenever possible and fucks you until you see stars, because he know that it’s all he can do at present. And if he’s going to do those things, he’s fucking well going to do them properly.

The inconvenient problem that is your marriage, and having a husband who is too well-connected to quietly get rid of, is one you and Tommy have talked about before, but Tommy’s never given you anything definite to pin your hopes on. That’s not his way. All he keeps saying over and over is, _“When he’s gone.”_

The words always send a little thrill down your back. It’s like he’s casting a spell by saying it, weaving it together to once again bend the world to his will. It’s well-known that Tommy Shelby tends to get what he wants, eventually.

“Oi,” Tommy says quietly, giving your earlobe a little nip. "Look at me."

You obey – mostly because it’s not as if looking at him is some great chore. You only do as he says when you fancy it, something you know he finds both amusing and infuriating. A potent mix. He smirks and lets go of you, taking a step back. 

Carefully, like he’s putting on a performance for you, he begins to remove his clothing. First the hat, placed on the table. Then he takes off his jacket, and you see his pocket watch and chain, winking in the dim lights, a slash of gold in a sea of coal black. You find yourself watching him hungrily, tracing a fingertip over your lip where he bit you. Even the sight of his forearms, revealed beneath rolled-up sleeves, is enough to fan the flames of urgency you feel when you look at him and the distance between you feels increasingly unacceptable.

“Tommy-“

“Mm-mm. Stay there,” he says, pointing a finger at you as he takes his time undressing, his smirk more pronounced now. As serious as he is, he’s a dreadful tease.

You scoff but know he’ll just make you wait longer if you don’t comply, so you shift impatiently on stockinged feet, feeling far colder than you did lounging on the bed waiting for him. You absently rub your arms, feeling goosebumps stippling your skin as you watch him, white shirt sliding apart to reveal the scarred, pale skin beneath, tattoos standing out starkly against his flesh. You have a sudden, powerful urge to bite him.

Finally he’s done, down to his trousers. There’s a beat, expectation hovering in the air between you. Then, he turns and marches towards you so suddenly and with a glint in his eye that makes you take a step back without realising, until your hip nudges your dressing table behind you.

With a smile that can only be described as wolfish, Tommy’s hands slide down to your waist and gives it a playful squeeze before he lifts you up, sitting you on your vanity. The clatter of makeup falling to the floor beings you back to the real world and you frown, flicking your gaze to his.

“Those had better not be broken now, Tommy,” you say, annoyed. “It’s an expensive brand.”

He snickers throatily and responds with a lazy kiss, though his porcelain face is unrepentant.

“I’ll buy you more,” he says with a shrug.

He’s not interest in your makeup, even with traces of your lipstick smudging his jaw. Instead he kisses you until you’re panting, standing in between your legs and sucking, nibbling on your bottom lip, like it’s a thing to be devoured. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, which you’d expect from him, but there’s another taste in there too that you can’t quite put your finger on – it reminds you of the woods in winter, of the outside.

His hands rest on your thighs, toying with the hem of your stockings, flirting with the lace, but then he pulls back a little, examining your face. You’re sure you already look a mess, pupils blown, lips red from his attentions and hair falling down out of its usual style. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and it hits you right between the legs when he does that.

“Your ‘usband,” Tommy says, each word weighty. “Doesn’t deserve you.”

You find yourself holding your breath.

“I know,” you answer, on the exhale.

Tommy grunts and lets you go. Then he slowly kneels down, sliding his hands down your legs as he does so, caressing them. He maintains eye contact with you until he’s kneeling right in between your legs and turns his gaze to what lies straight ahead of him. You squirm on the vanity, heart thudding hard in your chest. It's a little embarrassing to be looked at quite so _closely_ , but your skin is tingling with excitement.

He runs his hands slowly up your legs, pinkie ring glinting as he does so, and nudges them apart, fingers squeezing your thighs, since he knows you’re liable to snap them shut when the tensions gets to be too much to bear. He licks his lips, enjoying that tantalising strip of flesh above the stocking, but it’s not what he’s after right now.

You’re helpfully not wearing any underwear and Tommy smirks, before shifting you a little closer, your little gasp of surprise amusing him. His breath is hot as it ghosts over your skin, and anticipation twists in the pit of your stomach.

The first lick is scorching hot, his tongue dragging a stripe up the centre of your core. Your mouth drops open, a whispered _“oh”_ that you didn’t plan on saying drifting into the air. His fingers are firm as he holds you still, but not squeezing so hard as to bruise your skin. But despite how much you start to fidget, you can’t break free of his grip.

Not that you want this to stop. A throb is building in you with every stroke of his tongue, the sounds Tommy makes, greedy and primal as he tastes you, sends a tingle shooting through you like a firework. He doesn’t keep his hands idle, either, using one to hold you open for him and the other to massage lazy circles on your clit. You whine in response, two points of pleasure twining together to send you dizzy with how good it feels. You rake your hands through his hair, tugging a little as he sucks you into his mouth.

“Yes…” you mutter with a little hiss punctuating the end of the word. “Oh…mm…Tommy…it feels so good…don’t fucking stop…”

Tommy can be obliging when he wishes, so he doesn’t stop, not for a second, working you to the brink of an orgasm with that single-minded mercilessness that does him very well in his line in business. You feel drunk off what he’s doing to you, spellbound as he makes you come undone with little more than some flexes of his tongue. More things spill to the floor from your vanity but you scarcely notice, too wrapped up in the burst of pleasure slamming into you.

_“Tommy-!”_

Apparently, listening to the noises you were making, thinking about how he’s now pretty much fucked you on every available surface in your bedroom, has had quite the profound effect on Tommy as well. When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth (he’s oddly gentlemanly like that sometimes) and rises to his feet, tugging you closer by hooking his fingers around the backs of your knees. He jerks, impatiently, at his fly, slightly short of breath himself. The sight of him even slightly undone makes you pull him closer, clutching at his shoulders.

“You know there’s a perfectly good bed five feet away?” you laugh, breathlessly.

“Fuck the bed,” Tommy all but snarls, fingers digging into your ass. “I want you here. _Now.”_

He enters you almost on the wood, in one fell thrust, and you cry out without a pause, the sound leaving your mouth as if it had been trapped there all this time, just waiting to get out.

You know you can’t be as tight as he always insists that you are, but fuck if he doesn’t fill you up, hot and hard and it feels so fucking good. The spite towards your husband is just the icing on the cake, it’s like you’re both fucking him while you do this, your bodies united in a silent vendetta against his invisible presence. You growl as Tommy sinks in deep, and just because you feel like it, you drag your nails down his beautiful back, inch by inch, making sure that he’ll have marks of his own to carry around with him. Tommy’s eyes snap open, though you know he doesn’t dislike it.

“Naughty,” he rasps, giving your backside a sharp smack that makes you squeal.

“You like it when I’m bad,” you reply in a muffled voice, smirking against his lips. He huffs in amusement, forehead touching yours.

“That I do, love,” he concedes.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from grabbing one of your thighs and hoisting it up to his waist, changing the angle and hitting you in a way that makes you breathless, sinking himself to the hilt inside you. You can’t stop yourself from moaning anymore, though it’s softened by the mirror rattling behind you as Tommy rocks the vanity table with each thrust, his own curses of _“Fuck”_ a low rumble in his throat.

The pulsing, throbbing that starts up again in your core but somehow has spread to the entirety of your body, flooding your system with want and need.

“Oh, fuck…” you breathe, squeezing him like your life depends on it. “Yes…Tommy, I’m so _fucking close…”_

“Are you?” he asks, somehow managing to sound arch even at a time like this. His voice dips even lower. “And did I say you could come, sweetheart?”

The bastard! He’s going to tease you now, when you’re this close? You make the mistake of groaning in annoyance and he slaps your ass again, opposite side this time and you yelp.

“No…” you mutter petulantly, though you have to suck in your cheeks a bit to stop yourself from breaking character and smiling.

“No, what?” Tommy prompts, deliberately slowing his pace to taunt you further, the tension that had been building in you rapidly uncoiling. Frustration and lust surge through you, making it rather difficult to think straight.

“No, Tommy,” you say dutifully, but he clicks his tongue like you’re deliberately giving him the wrong answer just to annoy him. Then it clicks and you feel your face grow hot.

“No, Daddy,” you correct yourself, squirming beneath that piercing stare of his. He reaches out and winds a strand of your hair around his finger.

“That’s right,” he says, relentless and beautiful at once. “Now, I believe there’s something you want. Ask me nicely.”

You’re tempted to refuse, just to keep the game going, but your body can’t sustain this – it’s been too long since you stole a night together like this – so you give in, surrender yourself to Tommy like you always do.

“Please, Daddy,” you say in a low voice, moaning as he slide out of you, inch by inch. _“Please.”_

“Good girl.”

And he rewards you as he always does, sliding back fully into you and picking up the pace like there was no interruption at all. You cry out as he hits you deep, stroking where your own fingers can never quite reach and you hook your legs around his waist, clinging to him like a drowning person. You bury your face into his neck, his name spilling from your lips like an incantation, _Tommy…Tommy…Tommy…_ \- it leaves you breathless.

Tommy growls something in Romani as he comes, his head back, eyes shut, his jaw clenching. The moonlight peeping through the window hits his face just right and you can only sigh to look at him.

Silence falls, heavy as snow as both of you fall still, trying to gather your bearings. Tommy recovers faster than you do and sweeps you up off the vanity, carrying you across the room to deposit you into bed. You reach up and gently, lazily skim the sun tattoo branded on his chest. You’re one of the only people you know he’ll allow it from, and he knows you love his tattoo.

“Maybe we should get you one, eh?” he teases as he flips the covers back and sets you down. “Maybe my name, eh?”

You give an obligatory smile, but your heart isn’t in it. Despite the afterglow beginning to settle in and the tingling shocks still thrumming through you like a plucked string, this is the part you hate the most. You try to be adult about it, but watching him dress and vanish at the door, into the cloak of nightfall…it makes you feel like he’s just visited a whore.

 _Isn’t that what I am?_ You think, with a stab of bitterness. _An adulterer?_

As usual, it’s like Tommy reads your thoughts, because he turns your face towards him.

“It won’t always be like this,” he says. “Eh? Someday we won’t ‘ave to fuckin’ sneak around like this.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?” you ask, dryly.

Tommy scoffs, one hand idly smoothing over the covers.

“’ave I ever lied to you, love?” he asks.

You blink, surprised at the question, but even as you mentally count backwards to when you first met, you can’t come up with a single time Tommy outright lied to you. He chooses not to tell you certain things, but that isn’t the same.

“I suppose not,” you answer, shifting onto your side. “I just...I hate watching you leave.”

“I ‘ave to be gone in the morning,” Tommy says, but you sense that he’s hesitating, looking away as if thinking hard. You bite your lip as you watch him, but quietly you choose to let it go. You mustn’t be selfish.

“I know,” you say, settling back against the pillows. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mean-“

But to your surprise, he rubs a hand over his face, seeming to come to a decision…and then he’s sliding between the sheets beside you, as if it’s perfectly normal. You’re so surprised that you don’t move for a moment until he pulls you closer.

“I don’t deserve you either,” Tommy drawls, almost musingly, his voice husky in your ear. “But that never fuckin’ stopped me before.”

He holds you close to him like he has no plans to let go and you can’t temper the delight that flares somewhere inside you that your bodies fit together so perfectly, nor do you want to. Instead you move closer and rest your head on his chest, smugly.

“Who’s to say who deserves what, anyway?” you say, sleepily. You turn your head and press a kiss to his chest, feeling his heartbeat jump beneath your lips.

Tommy hums approvingly, his hand lightly dragging up and down your skin. The movement is soothing and even though you want to savour the moment a little longer, your eyes fall shut, and you can’t muster the energy to open them.

~

When the morning comes, you know that Tommy is gone even before you open your eyes. The yawning emptiness of your bed is impossible to ignore.

Still, evidence of Tommy lingers in the room like perfume. You can smell the faint tang of expensive cigarettes on the pillow beside you, and your fingers trace a bitemark he left on your neck. It can be easily covered by your hair, just as your scratch marks on his back will be hidden…but the point is, you’ll both know.

Fog engulfs the ground when you twitch the curtains aside to peek outside, and it’s easy to imagine Tommy striding through the mist in his long black coat, conjured like the devil himself.

It’s then that your eyes land on something on the vanity. Everything else has been put back more or less where it was, but the little box, tied with a ribbon, is new. Curiosity needles you, so you tiptoe across the room and pick it up, rattling the box like a child on Christmas Day.

The ribbon slithers between your fingers and you find yourself holding your breath as you take off the lid.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, sits a necklace with a delicate silver chain. You lift it up and gasp slightly at the jet-black pendant on the end, glittering like a drop of blood in the early morning light. The chain and the jewel contrast pleasingly, simple but gorgeous. You don’t know if Tommy actually bought it himself or just sent a secretary off with a generous sum of money, but either way, it’s far more thoughtful than a string of pearls you rarely wear. You don’t waste any time slipping it on. It glitters between your breasts and you smile to yourself – it suits you.

Tucked into the lid of the box is a note and you smile at the familiar sight of Tommy’s script.

_Wear this and think of me._

_Until next time._

_Love, TS. X_

He’s never effusive, but you take the note and slot it beneath the velvet, in a little compartment hidden inside the box. Nobody will know it’s there and this way you can take it out and read it when you’re alone.

Your reflection smiles secretively at you in the mirror, the necklace cool on your skin. The night may be over, the hidden side of you retreating as you get ready to face the day, but you feel comfortable that no matter how long it may take, Tommy will make sure to see you again. The gift he gave you is more than a simple present, it’s a promise, a pact sealed.

The witching hour will come again.


End file.
